Walking from the communal pasture back home took much longer than one would expect when one were Meya Hild.

The reason? Two words: Marinia Hild.

It was often said that all seven Hild children were remarkable in some way. In the case of Marin, it was beauty. Such was her beauty that the manor’s young men created an unofficial category for her, the only one higher than Gold: Diamond, meaning she could marry any man in Crosset without having to pay him a single bronze coin.

Being the only Greeneye in Crosset, Meya also had her own unofficial category: Dung. It didn’t help that she was always reeking of pig droppings, either. The lowest class defined by the law was Pebble, actually.

Either way, it meant she’d need to work hard to save up a large dowry. Who cared if all that hard work in scorching daylight made you look even less desirable? Dung, at least, stank less and didn’t squish underfoot once laid out to bake in the sun.

By all accounts, Marin should be able to marry early. If not for Dad. Like most pretty maidens, Marin wasn’t allowed to work outdoors. She was forced to spend her days inside the house helping Mum out with light housework. If her skin were any fairer, Meya swore she could have scraped lead white off it and sell the powder to rich women in Meriton.

It was difficult for young lads of marriageable age to gain access to Marin. The solution? Two words: Meya Hild.

Every evening, Meya would walk through the village, trundling a wheelbarrow full of hens, trailing a pig on a leash, receiving letters, flowers, jewelry and food to pass on to Marin. For a fee, of course. Perhaps once them knuckleheads had learned to stop calling her attention with “Oi, Dung!”, she would deign to do it for free.

The inflow of young men trickled to a stop about a minute’s walk from Hild House. Dad was armed with a sickle tied to a broom handle, sharpened at the ready for gutting, and suitors knew to give Marin’s house a wide berth.

Meya put Hanna and the chicken back in their homes, left the wheelbarrow beside the chicken coop, heaved up the bulging sack sitting in it, then trudged to the cottage door.

The instant she entered, a confused din of greetings befell her from the occupants, now crowded around the pot hanging over the fire in the hearth.

“Have you latched the coop door?” Mum asked, as always worrying about every wee thing in the three lands except Meya’s own wellbeing.

“You alright, Meya?” Maro made no move to hide his concern, which was why Maro would always be her favorite brother.

“Any bullies at the pasture today?” Marin demanded. Meya guessed she would have gotten along with Marin, too, had her skin not been so white it glowed in the firelight.

“Where’s your collar?” Morel, on the other hand, couldn’t give any less damn.

“Is it true you kicked Gregor Krulstaff in the crotch?” Marcus abandoned his bowl and darted over.

“What’s that you got there?” Myron pointed to her sack.

“Show me your hands!” Mistral squealed, eyes sparkling with delight.

Dad made no move to indicate he had acknowledged Meya’s return. Only when Mum made to hand her a bread-bowl did he growl between mouthfuls of bread and vegetable stew.

“No dinner, Alanna.”

“Please, Dad. She was just trying to help out.” Marcus turned and pleaded.

“Quiet, Marcus.”

Dad had already told them about the Ice Pillory. Just as well. It saved Meya the trouble of recounting what had happened. Taking a deep breath, she rattled off answers to all of their questions.

“Yes, Mum, no sneaky tom would get his paws on a single feather tonight. Mistral, here are my hands. Still intact. Maro, I’m fine, how kind of you to ask. Marin, yes, some tyke pushed me into the path of a horse cart. Morel, where I keep my collar is none of your business. Marcus, no, I didn’t kick his crotch; it was his arse. And Myron, this here—”

Meya lifted the sack from her back and displayed it.

“—contains the tokens of appreciation from the men of Crosset to our beautiful Marin.”

Meya set the bundle down then untied the rope. Its four corners fell away, revealing an ensemble of spring flowers, cookie pots, lurid red envelopes, and crates filled with honey pies. All her siblings scrambled in, except Morel.

“Goodly Freda, why so many?” Marcus exclaimed. Myron admired the artwork on the cookie pots. Mistral rubbed her cheek against an embroidered handkerchief. Meya couldn’t resist a snicker.

“May Fest approaches! So, who will you choose for the May Dance this year, Diamond Girl?”

Marin blushed a deep scarlet. Personally, Meya didn’t give that big a fart about on whom Marin’s pity would fall this year, but the more intel she could sell along with her gift-ferrying services, the more gold she could demand.

“Why d’you ask, Dung Curl? She won’t be taking any of your admirers, anyway, seeing as you never had any.” Morel cut in before she could reply.

“Morel!” Her other five siblings yelled as one.

“Morel! Take that back.” Mum raised her voice, her frail throat making her sound as if she had a perpetual head cold. Meya had prepared for war, of course, but the painful tug in her heart persuaded her to sue for peace.

“It’s fine, Mum. Everyone calls me dung-something these days. Tisn’t gonna make Morel a bigger stink-bug than she already is.” She couldn’t resist a jab, still.

“Meya!” Mum whirled around and snapped at Meya instead. Meya eked out a sheepish grin. Well, that backfired.

Dad was anxious to finish his last meal of the day in peace.

“Perish it, you two. Or I’ll take your bowl away until tomorrow night. Yes, Morel! Even if you did cook dinner!”

Dad cut Morel off before she could do more than part her lips. Meya’s cheeks ballooned like a full waterskin as she stifled her laughter. Dad could withhold her meals for a week, and she’d still survive on the money she earned ferrying gifts to Marin. The weeks leading up to May Day were the time to exploit. Not that anybody knew what she was up to.

Desperate to lighten the atmosphere, Marin studied the tottering pile of gifts, then pushed it towards her younger siblings.

“Meya, I can’t eat all these. You guys take some. You need all the food you can get since you work so hard. Please, Dad? Just this once? It’s almost May Fest.”

Marin served Dad her most pleading gaze. Dad would always have Marin give the free food to the church’s daily charity tent. Accepting the gifts when you had no intention to marry the men was disgraceful, he reasoned.

Dad could resist Marin’s googly eyes. Most of the time. She resembled Mum too much. Sighing, he nodded.

“Very well, take one for each of you—Meya, you are to have none.” Dad added, freezing Marcus and Myron in mid-cheer, then shook a warning finger. “Remember their names and thank them tomorrow.”

The five youngsters mumbled their Yes, Dads, and each selected one gift from the pile, shooting Meya apologetic glances that promised they would share whatever they chose.

They looked so forlorn, Meya itched to wink back, but she couldn’t have Dad’s hawk-like glare catching on to her secret.

“Take your pick. I’ve already eaten.” Meya lied, wishing her stomach would stop growling as fumes from Morel’s stew wafted over. She settled down in the corner beside the door. “Jason treated me at the tavern. He knew Dad’s not gonna give me dinner.”

Meya shone a triumphant smirk at Dad. Dad’s glare dropped even lower in temperature, chilling the air in the cramped cottage.

“You take that attitude to Hadrian Castle, and you’ll have your tongue ripped out through your teeth, Meya.”

It took Meya a moment to process exactly what Dad had said.

“Hadrian Castle? What d’you mean?”

Meya glanced at the others, then back to Dad. Everyone looked just as surprised.

“Lord Crosset’s daughter, Lady Arinel, is getting married to Lord Coris of Hadrian. She’ll move out to live in Hadrian. Lord Crosset is recruiting young maidens of character to accompany and serve her there. He summoned for me.”

“So that’s what took you so long today?” Meya gawked in disbelief. Young maidens of character, he’d said. And Dad chose her? It didn’t make sense.

Dad had never chosen Meya for anything. Nobody of perfectly sane mind would. Unless she was the last resort, or there was a catch of some kind.

“But I’m a Greeneye. The Lady wouldn’t want me anywhere in her vicinity, would she?”

“That won’t be a problem, since you’ll be wearing your collar.”

There it is. The catch.

Meya felt anger and frustration simmering in her bowels, but she clenched her fists and kept them from showing. She needed to keep her cool. Or Dad might change his mind. After all, he had four daughters to choose from.

Meya hated the collar. It was the only thing she would never forgive Jason for.

One fine day, seven years ago, Jason had brought Dad an iridescent metal band he’d received from a dying Greeneye in Noxx.

The band was made from Lattis, a metal discovered two hundred years ago in an iron mine in Rutgarth. Few years later, the whole mountain face was melted, the mine sealed by a dragon attack from the neighboring empire, Nostra. Since then, all mining had been banned. Lattis weapons and trinkets circling in the market now were all secondhand.

The Lattis band would dim the glow from the Greeneyes’ green eyes and lower their body heat, enabling them to blend in.

The fact that the collar looked no different from a dog’s wasn’t the main reason for Meya’s chagrin; it was the side-effects. The collar’s freezing cold burned against her skin, and it seemed to emanate an invisible, heavy aura that weighed down her limbs and fogged up her brain.

Meya would forget it at home whenever she could get away with it, or chuck it on the levee as soon as she’d gotten to the fields. How could she even work otherwise? Besides, being the only Greeneye in Crosset, pretty much the whole manor knew her face. Not to mention that was after they’d noticed her fat, red-gold head sailing towards them from a feather’s flight away, too. Glowing eyes or no, it didn’t help with the pranks, the name-calling or the shunning.

She had tried tossing it in the fire at Yorfus’s smithy. Having cows in the communal pasture stampede over it. Drowning it in a bucket of vitriol. Nothing could leave the tiniest dent on it. Yet, there must be a way to destroy it somehow. Otherwise, how could it have been molded in the first place? The secret must have been burnt to a crisp along with those miners in Rutgarth.

Meya despised the collar. Yet, she wanted this job. Having Jezia as a best friend, Meya longed to travel outside her birth manor for once. If only she didn’t have to strap that loathsome thing to her neck.

All that aside, why was Dad going to such trouble to get her the job?

“Why not Morel, then? She’s the best at cooking and cleaning, isn’t she?” Meya narrowed her eyes.

“What, me?” Morel jolted so hard she almost fell into the hearth. She scrambled over to Dad, hands clasped together in prayer. “No, Dad! Please don’t send me! Hadrian’s so far away!”

“I’m not sending you, Morel. You’re needed here.” Dad huffed an impatient sigh. Morel looked faint with relief, but Meya’s heart jolted in pain.

“And I’m not, you were saying?”

Dad whirled around, alarmed.

“No, Meya, listen—”

“No need. I understand.”

Meya pushed down the surge of desperation, willing her face empty but her nonchalant smile.

“It’s the Ice Pillory. The Liar’s Bridle. The Fest Trail. The Famine. The Song of May Day. But you must know, Dad—those were all me.”

“Meya, how many times do I have to tell you? You have nothing to do with my Song!”

Mum glared at Dad, daring him to contradict. Meya longed to see Dad’s reaction, but she couldn’t bring herself to look.

“That’s very kind of you, Mum, but what I’m trying to say is—all those times, I messed up. I made the choice to do the stupid thing. My eyes have nothing to do with anything.”

“They have, as far as Latakia is concerned.” A furrow appeared between Dad’s eyebrows. Meya gnashed her teeth in frustration.

“I won’t be able to do anything properly with that thing on my neck. You’re only making sure I’ll mess up.”

“That Greeneye in Noxx lived a perfectly normal life. You just have to get used to it.”

“I’m telling you, Dad, I hate it!”

Meya sprang up. Dad also blew his long-overdue top. He slammed his bowl onto the dirt floor. Lukewarm soup and lumpy vegetables splattered Mum’s dress. She screamed and scampered back. The children tensed up in fearful anticipation.

“Then perhaps it’s time you learn to do what you hate for once!”

Dad snapped, his face blotchy magenta. Meya gaped in silence as his voice thundered around the tiny house.

“Haven’t you heard what the folks were shouting back there in the trench? They were calling for your banishment! Crosset no longer tolerates you! Lord Crosset struck me a deal; you leave, and we get your fine back. And I accepted!”

Accepted.

The word echoed in the deafening silence within Meya’s world. Jason’s smile flashed before her eyes—his soothing voice asked her not to give up on Dad. If only he were here now. If only he could see how difficult that was.

“So—to put it simply, you’re selling me off for three months of wages?” Meya finally found her voice trembling and cowering in the void enveloping her heart. Dad’s brown eyes remained cold as they had always been, but even so, she whispered in disbelief. “Is that all I’m worth to—to you, Dad?”

Dad turned away, ignoring horrified stares from around the house. Tears were falling from Mum’s bulging eyes. Mistral looked confused; Myron had cupped his hands over her ears. Even Morel had shed her aloof façade and was blinking at Dad.

Meya understood then. Dad had no choice. With Myron starting his apprenticeship and Meya paying her fine, there’d be three breadwinners to feed eight mouths.

Meya turned to Mistral. Her tapered, beautiful fingers could weave a bobbin through hundreds of threads with ease. What would those fingers look like after months of tilling and plowing? Could she feel the texture of silk again through all the warts and thickened skin?

Biting back tears, Meya drew in a deep breath.

“When do I leave?” She asked.

“Day after tomorrow.” Dad grunted. Meya blanched. She didn’t expect it would be that soon. She probably wouldn’t have a chance to say farewell to all of the few people who didn’t mind having her around that much.

What if something happened to her during the journey? She’d heard people would fall ill and die. Or run into thugs and bandits and thieves. Or get stranded in the middle of nowhere and starve to death. What if she never saw them again?

“Who’ll look after Hanna?” She asked. Dad snorted.

“Don’t you worry. As if we’d let our winter food starve.”

Maro shot Dad a reproachful glower, which he ignored. Meya’s heart sank even lower—she wouldn’t be there to send Hanna on her way to the butcher’s board.

Meya’s head felt so blank and sluggish as if she had already put on her collar, and it was all she could do to nod. She wrung her brain dry for some ingenious solution, anything that would get them out of this predicament of her own doing. But nothing came. She sighed, resigned to her fate.

“I’d better get started on saying my farewells, then.”

Without waiting for permission, Meya turned and pushed open the door, walking out into the gathering night. The sun had disappeared behind the hill where Crosset Castle stood, black spires shooting up against a backdrop of star-spangled ultramarine sky. She hated its lord, yet it had never looked more beautiful.

Oil lamps along the road had been lit. Yellow lights shone through oil paper tacked over windows in cottages crowded along the way. Cold winds batted Meya as she made her way down the sloping dirt road which led to the fields she had worked in.

Meya balanced expertly on the levee, walking past seas of purplish wheat swishing under the faint light of the half moon. She ventured into the forest, past the oak tree where she would knock down acorns for her piglets in autumn, using memory to guide her to the hollow trunk of a large, dead tree.

Meya knelt down on the damp earth and caressed the ground with both hands. She found a small pointed stone, and raked back the loose soil with it until she’d unearthed a drawstring cloth bag. It had once been off-white, but was now brown from its time in the earth.

Settling down with her back to the wall of the hollow, Meya loosened the drawstring and rummaged among the accumulated trinkets. Then she found it—a wooden tub about the size of her palm.

Meya unscrewed the top and brought out the small, jagged stone by touch. The stone was cold and rough, but she held it tight and pressed it against her chest as she sang, her voice a mere whisper on the wind.

It was a little song she wrote herself, sung in a voice that supposedly belonged to Mum.

I’m here to sing a song I own.

I wish to hear the world sing along.

I’ll sing my heart for all who’ll heed.

So lend your ears to the wind as it blows.

Mum once traveled the region as a famous songstress, before she married Dad and settled down. Every year, she would sing at the May Fest, and people would travel from as far as Easthaven to hear the Song of May Day.

That came to an end on a rainy May Day, seventeen years ago. Mum was in so much pain giving birth to Meya, she screamed until her throat gave out. The Song of May Day was no more.

Many believed it lived on within Meya. From as early as she could remember, Meya was known as the thief who stole the Song of May Day. The fact that she was a Greeneye served as the final damning evidence.

Nobody had solid proof. However, they were right. Meya had never sung in front of a single soul. Though it was torture suppressing her song, she was more terrified of what people might do to her, and most terrified of what Dad might do to her. Nobody knew she could sing, except for robins and thrushes, and a boy from the past she only vaguely remember.

He was a visitor from another manor. He had stumbled upon her singing in the pigsty, alone on May Day as she usually was, as her family and the whole village were at the festival, witnessing Marin receiving another May Queen crown.

Perhaps as payment, the boy had given her the small stone encrusted with shards of raw emerald that were the color of her eyes, along with gentle words she would repeat to herself, whenever she felt she needed a kind voice to usher her on.

“You’re worth more than a pig, or simply your mother’s song, Meya. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

I’m Meya, Meya.

I’m born on May’s eve.

As my father grieve for my mother’s song.

Oh Meya, they say

What good is a lass,

As unruly and poor as Meya Hild.